Song of Eagles (22 page)

Gauss was having trouble saddling a spirited horse from Burt's corral, but at length he led the bay over to the front of the courthouse and tied it to a hitchrail.

The Kid armed himself with a rifle and a pistol from Pat Garrett's office before he hurried down the stairs. Emerging from a back door at the foot of the stairway, he paused when he came to James Bell's body.

“I am sorry I had to kill you,” the Kid said loudly, so many of the townspeople heard him. “I couldn't help it.”

He then made his way around to the street, where he stopped at Olinger's corpse.

“You ain't gonna round me up again,” the Kid snarled, nudging the body with the toe of his boot.

He came over to the saddled horse, where he hesitated long enough to speak to Godfrey Gauss. “Old fellow,” the Kid said, “if you hadn't gone for this horse, I would have killed you just like the others.”

It was with some difficulty that the Kid finally mounted the skittish bay. He swung the horse away from the courthouse steps and jerked it to a halt when he saw the townsfolk watching him closely.

“Tell Billy Burt I will send his horse back to him as quick as I can,” he shouted. Then he turned the animal again and made off at a gallop.

He was leaving two dead men behind him, and he knew Sheriff Pat Garrett would come after him for killing two of his deputies and escaping.

“To hell with all of 'em,” the Kid muttered as the bay took him swiftly into the rugged countryside.

His first order of business was to free his legs of the iron cuffs and chains. He headed for Salazar's place to get help with the blacksmithing he needed.

The Kid also felt sure the new governor, Lew Wallace, would issue orders to begin an all-out manhunt for him now. This part of the territory would be crawling with men trying to track him down.

He wondered if he might be able to rest up and lay low at the cabin of Falcon MacCallister. MacCallister had shown some sympathy for his plight the day he and Jim French showed up with leg wounds, and he had sure come through for him today by hiding that pistol in the privy.

The Kid made up his mind on it. After he got these chains off his ankles he would make for MacCallister's cabin, hoping the big gunman would hide him out for a spell.

If he did, the Kid vowed to himself to never mention it, for he didn't want the tall gambler to get in any deeper for helping him than he already was.

The Kid rode Billy Burt's pony as fast as he could, heading up into the foothills of the Capitan Mountains. He came out of the dense mesquite and creosote bushes into a small clearing.

Up ahead was a small, adobe cabin with a tiny corral nearby with some scraggly looking horses standing in it.

“Yo, the cabin!” Kid cried, his hands near the pistol he had stuck in his belt.

A middle-aged Mexican stepped out of the door of the cabin, an old Sharp's rifle in his hands. It was José Cordova, a schoolmaster from Fort Sumner, a man Kid had known for some time.

“José, it's me, Billy Bonney. Can I approach?”

“El Chivato!
” Jose cried, with a smile. He lowered the Sharps and said, “Come on in,
Chivato.
You are welcome at my little
hacienda
any time.”

The Kid walked his sweating pony up to the cabin and dismounted with some difficulty, as he still had bracelets on one arm and shackles on one of his legs.

He released the horse, slapping it on its rump and sending it on its way, knowing the animal would find its way back to Lincoln and its rightful owner, Billy Burt.

“You got a hammer and chisel, Jose? I gotta get these leg irons off, they're chafing me something terrible.”

“Sure, Billy.”

Cordova went into the house and came back with a small sledgehammer and a metal chisel. Together they worked for almost an hour before all the rivets were cut and the irons fell to the ground.

“I have some beans and tortillas. Are you hungry?” Cordova asked.

The Kid grinned. “I could eat one of those broncs you got in your corral if you offered.”

As the two men ate pinto beans and tortillas and washed them down with mesquite bean coffee, Cordova asked what the Kid planned to do next.

“If 'n you'll let me borrow a saddle and one of your mounts, I'm gonna head for Mexico, soon as I can get some
dinero
together to make the trip.”

Cordova waved a hand in the air. “Take what you need,
Chivato.
”

The Kid grinned his thanks. “By the way, José, I been meanin' to ask. I speak pretty good Mex, but what does Chivato mean, anyhow?”

José laughed. “It is not strictly a word, but it comes from
Chivo,
which is a male goat, and
Chiva,
which is a female goat. So,” he spread his hands, a wide smile on his face,
Chivato
means small, or young goat, what
Americanos
call a 'kid'.“

Billy nodded. “Oh.”

Cordova punched him in the ribs, a sly smile on his face, “It is also slang for one who is pretty good with the ladies.”

Now the Kid laughed. “Well,
compàdre,
I guess it fits both ways, don't it?”

Later, the Kid saddled one of Cordova's horses and waved as he rode off toward the mountains.

Just after dark he came upon another cabin, nestled in some tall, live oak and pine trees. He got off his horse and walked around the corner of the cabin, entering through a side door with his pistol in his hand.

He found two men in the kitchen, cooking supper.

“Well,” the Kid said, waving the pistol, “I got you, haven't I?”

John Meadows and Tom Norris looked up from their cooking.

Meadows said, “Well, you have, so what are you gonna do with us?”

“I'm gonna eat supper with you.”

Meadows slowly let out the breath he was holding. “That's all right, long as you can stand them beans.”

After supper, the three men sat around talking, Meadows and Norris smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, the Kid chewing on some peppermint sticks Meadows had in the cupboard.

“What are you goin' to do about Pat Garrett, Kid?” Meadows asked. “He's sure to come lookin' for you again now that you've broken out of his jail.”

“I don't have nothin' against Pat. If I was lyin' out there in the arroyo and Pat Garrett rode by and didn't see me, he would be the last man I would kill. I wouldn't hurt a hair on his head. He worked pretty rough to capture us, but he treated me good after he got me. He treated us humane and friendly, and was good to us after he did get us captured. I have ever such a good feeling for Pat Garrett.”

“How do you feel about Bob Olinger?” Norris asked.

The Kid looked up, the grin slowly fading from his face. “I expressed that pretty good a day or so ago, when I shotgunned him to death.”

Meadows and Norris looked at each other. That was the first they'd heard about the death of Olinger.

Meadows cleared his throat. “Well, Kid. When I was sick and down and out you befriended me, and there is two things I have never done—I have never kissed the hand that slapped me, nor went back on a friend. Anyway, I'm going to befriend you now. I have got fourteen head of old Indian ponies. Some of them ain't very much, but you go out and look 'em over, and if one of them does you any good, take it. And you are welcome to them all. But don't go back to Fort Sumner, for if you do Garrett will get you sure as you do, or else you will have to kill him.”

“I haven't got any money,” the Kid said. “And what would I do in Mexico with no money? I'll have to go back and get a little 'fore I go.”

“Sure as you do,” Norris said, “Garrett will get you.”

The Kid shook his head, a sly smile on his lips. “I've got too many friends up there, and I don't believe Pat will get me. I can stay there a while and get money enough and then go down to Mexico.”

The Kid stood and held out his hands. “Thanks for the grub, boys, an' the offer of the mounts. I got a friend I've got to go see, 'fore I think about headin' south.”

* * *

Pat Garrett was sitting in a saloon in White Oaks with John Poe when he heard the news of the Kid's escape.

He looked down at the table for a moment, then up at Poe.

“Now I'll have to go do it all over again,” he said.

He offered Poe and a mutual friend, Tip McKinney, the job of accompanying him back to Fort Sumner to look for the Kid. They both accepted the job offer.

On the way to Fort Sumner, Garrett and Poe and McKinney stopped off at Bob Olinger's mother's house.

“Mrs. Olinger,” Garrett said, “I just want you to know I'm going to go back and get the Kid for killing Bob.”

The white-haired lady shook her head. “My son was a murderer from the cradle until the moment he died. My feeling is he got his just deserts when Billy shot him.”

Garrett looked over at Poe, who shrugged.

“Nevertheless, Mrs. Olinger, I'm gonna get him, and either hang him or kill him for what he done.”

On the ride into Fort Sumner Garrett thought on what Mrs. Olinger had said, and his relationship with the Kid.

Though he still counted the Kid as a friend, he was in a tough spot. Dolan and his backers in Santa Fe wanted the Kid brought to justice, and fast. If he didn't do it, they would just hire someone else to get the job done.

At least, he thought to himself, with me the Kid has a chance of being brought in alive. Anybody else they sent would just shoot him down like a dog.

Pat Garrett stormed into The Drinking Hole, his face red and his neck swollen like a bull in heat. He stopped just inside the batwings, his head swiveling back and forth, looking for Falcon.

After a moment, when he didn't see him, he stomped over to the bar.

“Roy, where the hell's MacCallister?” he almost yelled.

Roy ignored him for a moment, continuing to wipe a beer glass until it shone. He slowly cut his eyes up at Pat, and Garrett realized he was no longer counted among the friends at The Drinking Hole.

“Could you speak a little louder, sir? I'm afraid I didn't hear you,” Roy said with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Garrett took a deep breath, removed his hat, and sleeved his forehead of the sweat that clung there.

“I'm sorry for yellin', Roy. Things haven't been goin' too well for me lately.”

Roy eyed the sweat stains on Garrett's silk shirt. “Kinda hot for April, ain't it?” he asked, a small smile on his face.

Garrett shook his head, returning the smile. “Yeah, Roy, an' over in Lincoln it's really hot for the sheriff since the Kid escaped.”

“Aren't you the sheriff, Pat?”

“Yeah, but I don't know for how long if I don't manage to find the Kid 'fore somebody else does, or 'fore he kills again.”

Roy nodded. “Kinda tough place to be in, ain't it?” He hesitated, then added, “ 'Course, it ain't near so bad as sittin' around waiting for somebody to come jerk you by the neck 'til you're dead, is it?”

Garrett took a deep breath, trying to calm his temper.
It wouldn't do any good to get in a fight with Roy. It'd only make matters worse,
he thought.

“Please, Roy, can you tell me where Mr. MacCallister is?”

“That's better, Pat.” He inclined his head toward the back of the room. “He's in his office. Go on in. He's expectin' you.”

“I'll bet he is,” Garrett muttered under his breath as he walked to Falcon's office and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” Falcon called. He was sitting leaning back in his chair, his boots on a pulled-out desk drawer, a whiskey in one hand and a long, black cigar in the other.

When Garrett entered the room Falcon got a concerned look on his face. “Why, what's the matter, Pat? You look like a gelding remembering the good old days, and not liking the new ones much.”

“You got that right, Falcon.”

Falcon nodded at the bottle of whiskey and glass sitting in front of Garrett, as if he had expected him to come and was ready for him.

“What can I do for you, Pat?”

Garrett poured himself a tall glass of bourbon and downed most of it in one long, convulsive swallow.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and stared at Falcon with narrowed eyes. “I come here to find out if you had anything to do with the Kid's escape.”

“And what if I told you, and you alone, that I did? What would you do about it?”

Garrett slammed his hand down on the desk. “Dammit, Falcon, he killed two good men in that escape!”

Falcon shrugged. “One good man, maybe, and one other.”

He took a slow, deliberate drink of his whiskey, then a long draw on his cigar. With smoke trailing from his nostrils, he said, “But be that as it may, this is a dangerous country, Pat. Men are getting killed every day for no good reason. And, you've got to admit Olinger was warned, several times, about the improbability of Billy ever being hanged, and the danger of taunting and humiliating him just because he was shackled like a dog and couldn't defend himself.”

Garrett slumped in his chair and drained the rest of his drink, quickly pouring himself another. He took a ready-made out of his pocket and lighted it with a lucifer he struck on his knee-high leather boots.

Falcon thought he looked quite the gentleman sheriff, with his cute little derby hat, long suitcoat, vest over a silk shirt, and fancy boots.

“Falcon, I'm askin' you straight out, did you help the Kid escape?”

Falcon laughed. “Pat, I'm surprised at you. You're the sheriff of this here county, and a United States Deputy Marshal to boot. If you think I aided and abetted a killer in a jail breakout, then it's your duty to prove it, and arrest me.”

Falcon leaned forward, both his eyes and his voice suddenly becoming hard as tempered steel. “But don't come whining around here to me because you can't keep a teenager locked up in your jail, with two full-time guards on him and with him chained to the floor.”

“I take it that means you're not going to answer my question.”

Falcon shrugged again. “I will tell you this, Pat. If, and I say if, I had it in my power to see that the Kid escaped, I would have done it.”

“But, Falcon, can't you see Billy's changed? He's no better than a mad dog running in the streets tryin' to bite people. Only the Kid's bite is fatal.”

“You don't understand the Kid, Pat, because you're so unlike him. To the Kid, the most important thing in the world is loyalty to one's friends. He has proven over and over that there is not anything he won't do for a friend.”

Falcon shook his head. “I feel sorry for you, Pat, because you lack that quality. To you, a friend is just someone to use to gain power or money or position. For you, loyalty is a one-way proposition. That's why you'll never understand why a man like the Kid would risk his life—and in fact will probably lose his life—simply for doing what he thinks a friend should do ... take care of his
compadres,
his partners, or his saddle-mates.”

“That may be, Falcon, but if I find out you helped the Kid I'll be forced to come back here and arrest you for it.”

Falcon smiled, took a last drag off his cigar, and stubbed it out. He looked up at Garrett, “Bring plenty of help if you try, Pat, because you aren't man enough to do it alone.”

“I won't have to ask far, Falcon. There's plenty of men in Lincoln who think you ought to be shot down in the street, without waiting for proof”

“Some of Dolan's lap dogs, I presume?”

Garrett nodded.

“Do you count yourself among them, Pat?”

“If I did, you'd be dead already, Falcon.”

Falcon got up and said, “Come on, Pat. I'll walk you to the door.”

As they exited the batwings, side by side, they found a group of men milling about in the dusty street in front of The Drinking Hole.

Four men stood in the forefront of the group, talking in loud voices to the people behind them.

A barrel-chested man with a full beard and the sleeves on his plaid flannel shirt rolled up to reveal massive forearms covered with thick patches of coarse black hair, yelled, “How long are we gonna stand for this? We all know MacCallister let Bonney out of jail. Let's put a rope around his neck and string him up 'til he tells where the Kid is hiding.”

“Who's the loudmouth?” Falcon asked, slowly pulling his coat back and loosening the hammer thongs on his Colt.

“That's Bud Warwick, a friend of Bob Olinger's. He's a teamster, drives mule teams across the desert when he's not drunked up or fighting in a saloon somewhere,” Garrett answered.

A rail-thin man next to him held a shotgun up in the air. “What do you say, citizens? Let's go in and get the gambler and make him talk.”

“That's Olinger's wife's brother, Slim Watkins, another worthless hunk of nothing. He's mad 'cause Olinger was the only one who ever bothered to bail him out when he got arrested for drunkenness,” Garrett said out of the corner of his mouth.

Suddenly, the crowd quieted and the two men turned.

“There he is now!” Bud called, putting his hand on the butt of his pistol.

As Slim cradled the shotgun in his hands, Falcon said, “Yes, here I am, big mouth. Just what do you intend to do about it?” Falcon asked, his eyes cold as February ice.

“We're gonna make you tell where Billy the Kid is hidin', and then we're gonna string the two of you up side by side,” the big man answered, glowering at Falcon from under bushy eyebrows.

“Not likely, friend,” Falcon said in a low, dangerous voice. “You'd be dead before you took the first step.”

“Now hold on,” Garrett called, holding up his hands. “As long as I'm sheriff of this county, there ain't gonna be any lynchin' or mob rule, you hear me?”

“Get outta the way, Sheriff,” Slim Watkins said, earing back the hammers on the shotgun and starting to turn. “We ain't got nothin' against you. We want MacCallister.”

“Take it easy with that scattergun, Slim,” Garrett said, his own hand hovering near his pistol. “I've already talked to MacCallister, and he says he don't know where the Kid is.”

“The son of a bitch is lyin'!” Bud yelled, “An' he got my friend killed.”

“Bob Olinger was a mean, cantankerous ass, who probably got what he deserved,” Falcon said, turning his body slightly to the side to present less of a target, for he knew gunplay was imminent.

“Why you . . .” Bud yelled, his hand going for his gun.

At the same time, Slim started to raise the shotgun to his shoulder.

Both Garrett and Falcon grabbed iron, Falcon getting off two shots before Garrett or Bud cleared leather.

The first slug took Bud in the throat, blowing a large-sized hole in the back of his neck and snapping his head back, throwing him with arms spread wide back into the crowd, spewing blood and bits of bone and flesh all over the men there.

Falcon's second bullet hit Slim in the forehead and blew the top of his head off along with his Stetson, which landed upside down on the ground and lay there with most of Slim's skull still inside it.

Slim's eyes got wide in the second he lived after the shot. Then he gave a loud sigh and toppled backward.

When his shotgun hit the ground butt first, it went off, blowing a chunk of meat out of a bystander's thigh. The man fell to the dirt with a loud scream.

By the time Garrett raised his pistol both Slim and Bud were lying dead on the ground. He turned to Falcon, who was still slightly crouched, his Colt extended should anyone else in the crowd want to take a hand in the fracas.

“God Almighty, Falcon! You drilled both those galoots 'fore I cleared leather.”

A voice from the mob could be heard to say, “Jesus, he's faster'n greased lightnin'!”

“And he didn't even aim, just fired from the hip and hit both men dead center,” a voice nearby added, with awe.

Garrett turned back to face the people in front of the saloon. “Someone go get the doc and take care of that wounded man on the ground there. And the rest of you go on home and let the law take care of Billy Bonney.”

As the townspeople dispersed, Garrett cut his eyes back to Falcon, who was putting his Colt back in his holster.

Falcon looked at Garrett, and smiled “Thanks for standing with me, Pat. There may be hope for you yet.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that maybe you'll remember what it means to call a man a friend, and not go gunning him down without giving him a chance.”

“If you mean the Kid, I've sworn to uphold the law, Falcon.”

“Are you talking about the law of someone like Jimmy Dolan, or are you talking about justice? They're not necessarily the same, Pat, a fact I hope you'll come to realize before it's too late.”